


Flaunting It

by DancingGrimm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anderson Is a Dick, Burglary, Dirty Talk, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Schadenfreude, shameless bragging, tight clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingGrimm/pseuds/DancingGrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Sherlock Deliberately Made Other People Uncomfortable By Showing Off About His Shiny New Sex Life (And One Time That John Did It Instead)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bragging

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [Flaunting it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/910448) by [ogawaryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogawaryoko/pseuds/ogawaryoko)



> Please note, this story takes place some time after my story The Adventure of the Consulting Woman. It has a few references to that story, but I'm sure you could read it as a stand alone if you so wished.  
> Enjoy :)  
> (Also, the above link leads to a translation of the story into **Chinese** , not English, but I can't get the archive to let me change the language setting)

 

 

 

Sherlock had been wearing his well-used put-upon look since he had settled into the armchair in Mycroft's office forty minutes ago, and it had yet to be wiped away. Indeed, if anything, it had deepened and soured into an expression that Mycroft would have dared to describe as mutinous. Evidently he was determined to find nothing of interest in the mystery Mycroft had to offer him, no matter that it was complex and unusual. No matter, even, that it was bloody important!

 

 

 

“Why can't you undertake this yourself?” Sherlock demanded, and Mycroft frowned at him.

 

 

 

“I have already told you, Sherlock. This business in the Sudan simply cannot be left to fester any longer. On top of that, there's some journalist trying to make last month's failed terror attacks public knowledge. And of course, there's always the usual trouble with North Korea and Georgia and-”

 

 

 

Sherlock indicated his lack of interest in Mycroft's problems by making a glottal snorting noise and sliding down further in his seat. He had used that same technique of expression four times in their meeting thus far. Once more and he'd be on the floor, a fact which was of some minor comfort to Mycroft.

 

 

 

“It's no small matter, Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded. “These are very sensitive situations that potentially affect the lives of billions of people. I can't simply abandon them in favour of dealing with a problem like this missing briefcase.”

 

 

 

“You have minions, get them to take on some of the international stuff for you. It would be good for your mind to do something a bit more challenging than pandering to politicians day in, day out.”

 

 

 

Mycroft rubbed his fingers over his forehead and tried to push down his temper. “Sherlock, please do not refer to my staff as 'minions', they are a very capable team. And I know you are aware that my work is far more than a matter of pandering. I have a great deal of information to process and many difficult decisions to guide, and-”

 

 

 

Sherlock interrupted him with a loud sigh, and dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Mycroft gritted his teeth. Change the subject, he decided. Why not let Sherlock talk about a topic he enjoyed for a bit? It might soften him up.

 

 

 

“How's John?” he asked politely. “I trust he's well?”

 

 

 

Sherlock raised his head incrementally and a slight smile crept onto his lips as he pulled himself up a little in his chair. “He's very well, actually. Full of energy.”

 

 

 

“I'm very glad. He's adjusted well to...the change in your relationship, then?”

 

 

 

“Oh yes,” Sherlock replied. “Regular sex seems to do John a world of good.”

 

 

 

“Hm,” Mycroft responded, realising that he'd perhaps made an error.

 

 

 

“Psychologically as well as mentally, I've observed,” Sherlock continued. “He sleeps better now, and while he'll always be somewhat hot tempered, he is rarely grumpy any more. He's far more cheerful in the mornings too.”

 

 

 

Sherlock stared hard at Mycroft for a moment, then smirked.

 

 

 

“Of course, often on such mornings he's so cheerful because we fuck just before he has to get up for work. It's remarkable how his attitude towards the alarm clock has changed lately.”

 

 

 

“Yes, I see.” Mycroft replied. “Now about this briefcase, I think-”

 

 

 

“Though I'd be lying if I said it hadn't improved things for me too. You remember what I was like back in my uni days, shagging any bloke who'd stay still long enough. But I've found that sex with John is actually far more satisfying. I don't feel the need to fuck anybody else at all, even though my sex drive has resurrected with considerable strength. Remarkable what a difference an emotional attachment can make, isn't it?”

 

 

 

“I suppose-” Mycroft began, but Sherlock suddenly sat up and leaned forwards in his chair, elbows on knees.

 

 

 

“And he's more imaginative than I'd ever given him credit for. I thought I'd signed myself up for a lifetime of being on the bottom in the missionary position, but not so. He's rather an adventurer. Why, he even managed to introduce me to a few books I'd never heard of. Can you _imagine_ , Mycroft?”

 

 

 

“I don't particularly _want_ to imagine, thank you Sherlock,” Mycroft said sternly. He could feel an uncomfortable, prickly heat making its way up his chest. “In fact, I'm not sure John would thank you for divulging this to me.”

 

 

 

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, what man wouldn't want his lover bragging about how talented he is in bed? Really Mycroft, you must make time on your schedule to go to bed with a doctor. John has the most deliciously complete knowledge of anatomy, it really is thrilling.”

 

 

 

The prickle made its way up Mycroft's face as a no doubt glowing blush.

 

 

 

“And of course, he has a marvellous cock. Good sized, but not so large it needs _management_ , you know? Of _course_ you know, you were as bad as me at one stage, weren't you.”

 

 

 

“Sherlock, I really don't appreciate this discussion,” Mycroft said decisively, and for a moment or two, there was complete, blessed silence in the office.

 

 

 

Then Sherlock smirked.

 

 

 

“I'm sorry brother dear, how terribly inconsiderate of me,” he said in syrupy tones. “Here I am talking about how good my sex life is, and you haven't had one to speak of for...goodness, it must be _years_ , mustn't it?”

 

 

 

“We really have gotten off track here, Sherlock. Now, about this briefcase-”

 

 

 

“There's no need to be embarrassed, Mycroft,” Sherlock cooed. “After all, it's simply a natural human need, isn't it. The need for closeness, for pleasure. Look at you, sitting there blushing. You're in a bad way, my dear brother, but I'm sure it's nothing that wouldn't be cured by the elevating sensation of a nice, thick, hot erection sliding forcefully in and out of your rectum-”

 

 

 

“Sherlock...”

 

 

 

“Strong arms around your waist-”

 

 

 

“Sherlock, really...”

 

 

 

“Teeth scraping against the side of your neck...”

 

 

 

Mycroft gave up. “Alright Sherlock, I'll consider this meeting over. You may leave. One of my assistants will drive you home.”

 

 

 

“Thank fuck!” Sherlock exploded, all traces of that previous sweetness gone from his voice. He was already pulling his phone from his pocket as he hauled himself out of his seat, and he paused on his way to the door only to glance over his shoulder at Mycroft and say;

 

 

 

“You know I'm right though. You could do with sorting out.”

 

 

 

He slammed the door on the way out of the office, and a few seconds later Mycroft heard him saying something catty to his driver out in the hall. Then he was gone from the building, objective not so much unobtained as gleefully abandoned.

 

 

 

Mycroft sighed and, in his head, took a look at his diary for the week, wondering about shifting some things around to allow himself a look into this briefcase business. After a few minutes, he felt his blush begin to recede and rather awkwardly uncrossed his legs. Damn and blast Sherlock, but he'd been right about some things. He was rather...lonesome, of late.

 

 

 

And damn it all, he would never be able to look John Watson in the eye again!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was fun, wasn't it :D 
> 
> I quite like being a bit mean to the secondary characters, so that's pretty much what this whole story is going to be about. I'm also planning a further story in this universe, one that's more like TaotCW, which will be called The Adventure of the Russian Gentleman, though that may be a while coming as there are other things I want to get written first. 
> 
> So, I'm going to need a series title for this. Any ideas? Send me your brain thoughts, my friends.
> 
> I've never written and 5 and 1 before. This is fun!
> 
> And please remember; Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe and feedback.
> 
> Tra la la


	2. Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was all Sherlock's own fault, of course.

 

John drummed his fingers on the covers of the book he was reading and struggled to keep his eyes away from his boyfriend. He didn't need to look at him to see that he was still as taught as a wire, scrunched into his armchair and glaring at the mobile phone on the coffee table as if he was expecting it to jump up and bite him.

 

Bugger.

 

It was all Sherlock's own fault, of course. He and Lestrade had been bickering about nothing all bloody week, and Greg had finally cottoned on to the fact that Sherlock might not have come entirely clean about the source of some of the information he'd used to solve their last case. Already pissed off, Greg had resorted to the somewhat childish method of pestering Sherlock to reveal his source. Sherlock wouldn't talk, more out of pique than any particular interest in protecting his informants, but Greg had somehow stumbled onto what seemed a very simple yet effective way of pushing Sherlock to the edge of paranoia.

 

John glanced at the clock. “It'll be another ten minutes or so until he calls again. Why don't you-”

 

“It will be eleven minutes and twenty two seconds _exactly_ John! He's sitting there with a bloody stop watch, I'm certain of it.”

 

Greg had been phoning exactly every thirty one minutes and nineteen seconds since around ten that morning. It was now early evening and Sherlock had spent the day trying to work out the relevance of that particular period of time, to no avail. John suspected that there _was_ no relevance and Greg was just doing it because he knew it would put the wind up Sherlock, but he wasn't going to put this theory forward in fear of some sort of fit of revenge.

 

“I was going to say; why don't you ring Kirsty and have a chat. She always makes you feel a bit better, eh?”

 

Sherlock and Kirsty _did_ enjoy putting the world to rights together. John wouldn't have picked them out as bosom friends, but they got along far better than anyone, including they themselves, had expected, and Sherlock usually found Kirsty's down-to-earth attitude and complete lack of interest in his cases strangely calming.

 

Last time she had come over for a natter, the topic had turned to cleavage and reasons for showing it. Kirsty said that, having paid so much for her breasts, she was damn well going to use them. Of course, this led to Sherlock wondering how, exactly, breasts could be utilised, and Kirsty explained some of her ideas on the matter, which led to Sherlock going and getting his breast forms out from the box in the wardrobe, which led to further conversation on the subject accompanied by quite a lot of _cupping_ , which led to John having to go and sit on the stairs with the newspaper crossword, trying to calm down. Still, it had been worth it to see Sherlock, relaxed and engaged, having something approaching a normal conversation with somebody other than John.

 

“Give her a ring, go on,” he encouraged, nodding towards the phone.

 

Sherlock's lips twisted a little as he chewed the idea over. “I can't,” he said finally. “For the same reason I can't switch the phone off. If it's engaged when Lestrade calls, I don't know what he'll do. He might escalate.”

 

John seriously doubted that Greg was about to put that much effort into tormenting Sherlock, especially given that it was a Friday evening, but he didn't say anything. He looked at the clock again, then got up, walked over to stand behind Sherlock's chair and rubbed his boyfriend's tense shoulders.

 

“Are you sure you can't tell him?”

 

Sherlock sneered. “Not at this point, John. It would set a bad precedent.”

 

Bullshit, John thought, but he wasn't in the mood for an argument. Besides, this was, he felt, one of those rare mistakes that Sherlock might actually learn from. He glanced at the clock again and tore himself away from Sherlock to go into the kitchen and start making tea. He'd timed it perfectly; he was still in the kitchen, the nice, calm kitchen, when the phone played a few seconds of a police siren sound effect. He listened as Sherlock snatched it up and answered, listened to the blistering string of insults and obscenities he delivered into the mouthpiece, and finally heard him press the button to end the call. He went back into the living room holding the two mugs, just in time to see Sherlock angrily shove the phone back into his jacket pocket and drop back into his armchair with a thump.

 

He stood near to the chair and waited until Sherlock turned large, weary eyes up at him, before tutting and handing over the mug of sugary tea. Sherlock took it with a sigh and sipped half-heartedly as John settled on the arm of the chair. He put one hand on the top of Sherlock's head and rubbed his hair gently. They sat like that for a while, calm and quiet as they could manage, Sherlock glancing up at the clock every minute or two. Finally, something occurred to John.

 

“Sherlock, Greg's been calling you from the phone in his office, yes?”  
  


“Yes. I saw the number on the screen before I answered.”

 

“Well, it's getting fairly late. He'll probably have gone home by now. He doesn't have an urgent case at the moment, so there's no reason for him not to go home, right? And you know how much he values his leisure time. He probably won't keep phoning you once he's home.”

 

Sherlock made a thoughtful face. “Only a theory, John,” he muttered.

 

John smiled. He was looking closely at Sherlock's face and could see the subtle signs that showed he had relaxed slightly. He glanced up at the clock again. It was earlier than they usually went to bed, but no harm in that. Get Sherlock distracted, calm him down, and an early night would do them both good. He slid his hand out of Sherlock's hair, down to the back of his neck, and let the motion of it change from a soothing rub to something a little more intimate.

 

He leaned closer to speak, softly, into Sherlock's ear. “Forget about the phone calls. Chances are there won't be any more of them tonight, and if there are, we'll ignore them. We'll have something better to do.”

 

A little smile twitched in the corners of Sherlock's mouth. “Better? Like what?”

 

“Let's tuck ourselves up in bed and see what we come up with, shall we?”

 

Sherlock gave him a smile then, and John leaned over him to kiss it. Then he took Sherlock's empty mug from his hands, put it down on the table with his own, and grabbed Sherlock's hands to pull him to his feet. They made their way to the bedroom, the one that used to be Sherlock's room alone, had a proper snog in the doorway, then undressed by the side of the bed. Sherlock usually got more excited as he got increasingly nude, and by the time they were both naked he was grinning and flushed in the face. His cock was hard, and John gave it a quick, firm stroke to make him gasp, then pushed him over onto the bed. He climbed on and straddled Sherlock's hips, smoothing his hands over his chest, his arms, through his hair and over his shoulders, until the sour tension began to ease away and Sherlock stared up at him with dark, yearning eyes.

 

John leaned down to kiss him again, rubbing his cock against Sherlock's tummy, and Sherlock grunted.

 

“What would you like?” John asked, and Sherlock answered with a breathy moan and a little lift of his hips.

 

John leaned forwards, almost lying on top of Sherlock, to reach out for the plastic jar of lube on the bedside table. With only the light from the open doorway to see by, he ended up rummaging for it among all the odds and ends that had ended up there and after a few seconds, Sherlock's hand joined his, clattering about. Finally, they both grabbed the jar at the same time, sending a small pile of old floppy discs, a pair of gardening gloves and an empty tissue box cascading off the side of the table. John got the jar open, got his fingers covered and got to work on himself. It was quick and easy these days, or at least it could be when he wanted it to be. They'd lost patience with condoms about a week after they'd become a couple and had both had their STI exams redone post haste. Thus, when John was ready, it was Sherlock's bare skin he felt as he slid down onto his cock, warm and smooth and sleek inside him.

 

Sherlock gasped and grabbed at John's hips, keeping it slow, they way he always liked when John rode him. John let him, easing himself down just a little at a time, until he could settle his weight onto Sherlock's pelvis. Sherlock beamed up at him, almost euphoric, beautiful and happy. Sweat was starting to break out on his pale skin, and John rubbed his hands through it as he started to rock, spreading the dull gleam of it across Sherlock's lovely body. “I love you,” he said softly, and Sherlock let out a little cry, his fingers trembling on John's hips as he arched his back as best he could under John's weight.

 

Then something started making a noise like a police siren.

 

“Fuck!” Sherlock snapped, and twisted violently under John, flung one arm off the bed, grabbed his jacket, grabbed the phone from the pocket and slapped it to his ear before John could protest.

 

“Lestrade, you fucking _bastard_!” Sherlock hissed venomously into the phone. “Do you have any _idea_ what you're disturbing? John only just got all the way onto my cock and we had _just_ got going properly, and he felt _perfect_ and _warm_ and...hello?”

 

John stared down at him.

 

“Lestrade ended the call,” Sherlock said, confused. “What was the point of even calling if _ah_!” He started as John smacked the phone out of his hand. “What did you do that for?” he demanded.

 

“Do you mind focusing, please?” John snapped. Sherlock was still nice and hard inside him and he _really_ could have done without all that nonsense.

 

“Oh! Of course, John. Please do carry on,” Sherlock said politely, and John gave him a bit of a thump on the chest, just to show him that he was pissed off, before he started moving again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love making Lestrade and Sherlock be all petty and childish around each other. Ooh it's fun!  
> And of course Sherlock's distracted during sex. He exists in such a constant state of distraction that people's thoughts can tear him from his focus, the poor bastard. I've had this idea for a while and was trying to come up with ways to get 'Yes I enjoying myself and your squishy bits feel lovely, but this call might be _Important Crime Shit_ ' into a story.
> 
> Also, I like to think Mycroft just happened to be listening to the phone tap that night and got a second serving of cringe.


	3. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock glanced in several darkened windows he passed as he approached it, checking his appearance.
> 
> He looked perfect.

It was a mild, dry night, so Sherlock had decided to walk to the pub, knowing that the slight bite of cold on the wind would only add to the attractively flushed appearance of his skin that was left over from his bath. He saw the pub in question, a rather pretentious gastro place, as soon as he turned the corner; it was the only place of business on the quiet street to be open this late at night, even though it was only nine, and light spilled out of the large windows and the frosted panels of the door, picking out details of the few smokers huddled outside. Sherlock glanced in several darkened windows he passed as he approached it, checking his appearance.

He looked perfect.

John was always telling him that he was attractive and, though he'd sometimes used his appearance to certain ends, before John he had never really appreciated the fact that people liked to look at him. He'd since learned, though, that the sensation of John gazing hungrily at him as he undressed, or casting him yearning looks as he appraised a crime scene, was immensely satisfying. Having become somewhat used to this, he'd gradually grown more aware of other people taking in his appearance. An annoyance at times, but in this case he was going to make good use of it.

He had the collar of his coat turned up, which he knew John thought made him look cool, and he had arranged his hair with care into the loose curls that John said made him look like a cherub. Under the coat, his purple shirt (John's favourite) clung snugly around his chest, tucked neatly into a pair of charcoal grey jeans so tight he'd had to lie down on the bed to get them on. The jeans in turn were tucked into his old riding boots, the leather polished to a dull gleam. John had found the boots in the wardrobe when he had moved into Sherlock's bedroom, and had gone all quiet and red in the face for a couple of minutes. Sherlock had been saving them for a special occasion.

He hadn't exactly expected that special occasion to be Sarah's birthday, but even a genius can't predict everything.

Sherlock and Sarah had long since agreed to bury the hatchet ('I'm just glad it wasn't buried in me!', John liked to joke) and he generally considered her an alright sort, at least now she'd left John alone. Thus Sherlock had decided to spare her his presence during the meal itself, even though she'd given John permission to invite him along. Her birthday was on Sunday, so her colleagues had decided that Friday, after work, would be an ideal time to take her out for drinks and dinner, and she would probably be in a good mood. He had agreed to pop in for a drink or two later in the evening and, as it was now a little after nine o'clock, he was sure his entrance would be appropriately timed.

He smiled at himself in the window of the last shop before his destination, and decided what expression he'd use when he walked into the pub. An open smile, friendly and approachable, but not too warm. It would be important to make an entrance properly, especially if his target was sitting facing the door. After trying a few options, he settled on his 'relief at receiving welcome news' smile, adapted for the occasion by showing just a little more in the way of teeth. Perfect.

He could picture John's reaction, the transparent delight and pride that would appear on his face when he saw Sherlock dressed so attractively. He could already imagine the way John would keep a possessive arm around him as they sat side by side, the lovely, dirty things John would whisper to him as they made their way home. No doubt their evening would end in intercourse, possibly with Sherlock still wearing the boots and certain other garments too, which was all to the good, as he'd been distracted by a fiddly little case these last few days. No doubt they could both benefit from a couple of rounds of sex.

Still though, John wasn't actually his primary target for the evening.

A few months before John had revealed his feelings to Sherlock, after the Edward Dyer case, John had developed an attraction to one of the nurses at the surgery. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, well established in her career, and Sherlock could certainly see John's reasons for being drawn to her. Tall, slim, intelligent, dignified, blah blah blah, all the things John liked. Until John asked her out, of course, at which point she revealed herself to be a complete evil harpy bitch (Sherlock's words). She was very self centred and snobbish (John's words) to the point that she felt justified in asking John if he really felt he could get a woman as attractive as her, when he was just an average looking, ordinary GP.

At the time, when John had drunkenly recounted this conversation to him, Sherlock had been angry. This woman not only thought herself better than John, she was stupid enough to be blind to his many qualities and graces. The rush of protective anger he had felt had given him a push towards realising the depth of his affections for John, the adoration he felt for him, and the desire.  
Now that he was John's significant other, Sherlock's ire towards her had doubled to the point that it had become a distraction, and he had decided that revenge was necessary. Of course, John would be cross with him if he took revenge directly, or even simply told the woman in question a few choice facts about herself to shake her confidence. No, he was going to be far more subtle. He was going to make this woman want him, and then demonstrate that he only had eyes for John. Because really, a man like John deserved only the best.

There was a hum of conversation and music filtering out of the door of the pub, and Sherlock took a deep breath to prepare himself, before reaching to push it open. He passed through the doorway, hovering just inside for a moment while he looked for John and his party. They occupied a large table in a far corner of the main room, half of them in the booth style seating against the wall, the rest in chairs. John was in the booth and was just sliding back into his seat after rising to let one of the other doctors get out to go to the bar. Sarah spotted Sherlock right away and gave him a little wave, which was helpful of her. All eyes at the table turned to him with perfect, synchronised timing as he swept off his coat to reveal his skin tight outfit.

Heads turned towards him from all over the pub then, mostly women, and every pair of eyes at John's table were wide and intent. But Sherlock only had eyes for two people. John was staring at him with delighted admiration, warm and clean and wholeheartedly welcome.  
And Audrey, the nurse in question, looked like she'd just suffered a blow to the head.

Sherlock slung his coat onto the rack by the door and sashayed over to the table, enjoying the squeeze of denim and leather around the muscles of his legs and buttocks. Sarah smirked at him as she shifted along the booth seat to make room. And oh look, as he moved past her, Audrey just happened to stare raptly at his bottom. And so did the man sitting next to her. The remarkably handsome man with his arm around her shoulders. Obviously her boyfriend of a few weeks standing. He hadn't expected that. Bonus.

“Hello, love,” John said affectionately as Sherlock slid into the seat beside him. John didn't like to kiss properly in public much, especially not when they were in a group of people, but he did give Sherlock a peck on the lips and allowed him to settle close against his side. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt under a cotton cardigan, and when Sherlock put an arm around his shoulders, he felt soft and firm and lovely.

“Glad you could join us, Sherlock,” Sarah said with a touch of laughter in her voice.

“Happy birthday,” Sherlock replied with a smile in her direction, then bent to nuzzle John's ear, making him chuckle and slide an arm around Sherlock's back.

The evening went by very well indeed. Audrey couldn't take her eyes off Sherlock, her gaze eating him up hungrily. Every time she found a new bit of him to stare at, he would snug himself more tightly up against John, touch his hair, kiss his cheek, whisper something sweet to him. And John, bless him, responded exactly as Sherlock had hoped, affectionate and happy and full of promise for the night ahead of them. If he'd even realised Sherlock's ulterior motive, he didn't seem to care.

“Do you like films?” a voice asked him from nearby, disturbing Sherlock from his contemplation of John's hand squeezing his hip.

He looked up to find that it was Audrey's model-handsome boyfriend talking to him. “Pardon?” he replied.

“Do you want to go and see a film with me?” the young man asked, completely oblivious to his scowling girlfriend. Sherlock ran his eyes up and down the man's sculpted body and found himself distinctly unimpressed.

“I think I can do better, don't you?” he asked lightly, and curled more snugly still against John's side. John turned to him and, while Audrey was smacking her boyfriend in the head with her handbag and storming out of the pub, Sherlock was enjoying being very sweetly kissed by his boyfriend. 

None of the rest of the party seemed terribly put out at Audrey's departure, or that of her spluttering beau, which led Sherlock to wonder what she'd said to the others over the course of her employment at the surgery. As it was, actually, Sherlock ended up having a fairly pleasant evening. It was easier to avoid feelings of frustration with other people when he had John to focus on, especially when he could touch him and be held by him. They had a couple of drinks apiece and shared a plate of profiteroles while John chatted and Sherlock got gawped at, and then people began to drift away, heading off home, giving Sarah their best wishes on the way.

Finally, John gave Sarah a peck on the cheek (Sherlock looked away) and said his goodbyes to the two other people remaining, helped Sherlock into his coat, put on his own jacket, and they were on their way home themselves.

John's arm remained tucked nicely around Sherlock's waist as they walked, Sherlock's draped over John's shoulders in turn. He rarely felt comfortable walking like this, but here, in the quiet night time streets, it felt rather pleasant.

“So,” John said, breaking the silence about three minutes into their walk. “Your outfit – which is smashing, by the way – and the crawling all over me, and the 'doing better' comment...was that all for Audrey's benefit?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied. “Was she the girl who left first? I wasn't sure.”

He could feel John looking at his face with curiosity, but kept his own eyes pointed straight ahead. After a moment, he saw John's smile in his peripheral vision, and relaxed.

“Okay,” John said, “Let's say that it was all entirely for the purpose of seducing me, not that I believe it, or that you've ever had to put any effort into that before. But let's say it was so that we can go home and act like it was, yes?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “And, by the way...” he took John's hand from the curve of his waist and guided it down to his thigh. John's fingers settled, moved curiously against the denim, then froze. He'd felt it.

“S-stockings?” he asked faintly.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“Oh love,” John breathed, and he pulled Sherlock to him in the dark street for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Sherlock is always going to be a petty little bugger and knows just how much he can get away with.
> 
> I'm having fun with this story :D
> 
> And also...Sunlitlake has drawn a picture of Sherlock in his revenge gear! Go and take a look and tell her how awesome it is [here](http://sunlitlake.tumblr.com/post/65897730141/last-month-the-lovely-lucy-aka-dancinggrimm).
> 
> By the way, a few people have left me comments asking for Mystrade. I'm not planning to do any of that in this story, or any others in the near future, though I do have some plans to do another 5 and 1 some time after The Adventure of the Russian Gentleman which may have hints of them. So please be patient.
> 
> In the meantime, if you're craving Mystrade, I'd recommend trying the works of Lapislazuli, who is a lovely writer, for whom I have the pleasure of being beta reader / Brit picker. The stories she currently has in the works are going to be A-1 awesome. She's [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LapisLazuli) .
> 
> Thank you and goodnight.


	4. Comparison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be fair, there were only about four or five corpses in the pile, so she'd seen worse scenes.

 

 

“Why does he have to make such a performance out of it? It's not like it's a difficult task.”

 

Sally Donovan kept her mouth firmly shut. _Don't engage_ , she told herself. _He'll only end up making you angrier_.

 

She'd have thought that the last thing she needed on a Monday morning was the presence of the Freak. Unfortunately, today she also got the pleasure of spending her work hours sharing space with a big pile of corpses. Great.

 

To be fair, there were only about four or five corpses in the pile, so she'd seen worse scenes. However, they were all cut into big chunks and stacked up together in the middle of the living room, which not only made it look a great deal worse, it also made it a hell of a lot harder to deal with. There was a lot of forensics work to be done here, and the amount of blood spattered everywhere would make crime scene analysis a nightmare. So of course, Lestrade had called in his favourite Consulting Twatbag.

 

And okay, fair enough, he'd managed to give them a rundown of what had happened and confirm that the resident of the flat was also one of the bodies on the pile, which gave them a head start, even if she was loath to admit it. Anderson was working the scene though, and she was just waiting for it to kick off.

 

She was also yearning for an excuse to give Holmes a good, hard sock in the mouth. That was all she needed; an excuse. She was just in the mood to hit somebody awful.

 

Watson was getting to make himself useful for once, actually, which seemed to calm the Freak down just a bit. Before Lestrade left, leaving her to guard the scene, Watson got permission to help Anderson sort out which bits belonged to which corpse, until the rest of the forensics team got there, and the two of them were now tiptoeing about in amongst the dismantled corpses in their little blue onesies, putting together the world's grottiest jigsaw, while she and Holmes stood in the kitchenette and watched. They'd been silent, for the most part, and Sally desperately hoped that, if she didn't respond, he would give up on talking. She wasn't sure if she hoped Lestrade would get back before something set the Freak off or not, actually. Excuse and all. Then, after long, precious, quiet minutes of being able to pretend that the Freak didn't exist, John Watson startled her by speaking.

 

“That one doesn't go there,” he said quietly, pointing at something Anderson had just put down, and Anderson shot bolt upright, glaring at Watson.

 

“I appreciate your _assistance_ , Watson,” Anderson said, all huffy precision, “but please don't think that because you have medical qualifications you are capable of understanding the dynamics of a crime scene. You're getting just as bad as Holmes, presuming to tell me how to do my bloody job, and-”

 

“I know enough to know that that bloke you're putting together probably didn't have two left hands,” Watson interrupted, pointing. Anderson's mouth snapped shut, and he stared at the offending appendage for a few seconds before sheepishly bending down, picking it up, and handing it to Watson.

 

The Freak sniggered softly, and Donovan turned to glare at him. Poor Anderson. Holmes' presence always put him on edge, it was no surprise he kept cocking up when he was around.

 

“You don't look happy, Detective Sergeant,” the Freak said coolly, smiling at her from one corner of his mouth.

 

“If you'd give him half a chance-”

 

“He could render the crime scene useless? Yes, I'm sure he could.”

 

She felt the urge to just let rip and swear at him, but pushed it down. “He's not as bad as you make him out to be, you know. Anybody listening to you would think he was some sort of criminal.”

 

Holmes' lips twitched. “Would they? Well, consider it this way; he often works alone, with nobody to point out when he's got something wrong. What if it isn't that other people give him nerves and make him make mistakes? What if it's more the case that, when he's alone, his mistakes never get spotted, or are left unseen until it's too late? If he's always this bad, think how many criminals may have walked free because of him.”

 

Donovan pursed her lips and looked away from him. “You think you could do better?” she snapped.

 

“No, or at least not as a forensics tech. Not without putting in lots of ghastly office hours.” His eyes cut towards her and a little smirk appeared and then vanished so fast she could have blinked and missed it. “Of course, though, if you were talking about a comparison between you and I, then yes, I can easily do better.”

 

Donovan snorted. “What exactly is _that_ supposed to mean?”

 

“Exactly what it sounds like. I have acquired a far better partner.”

 

Fucking nerve! “No you haven't. You've just finally managed to find someone who puts up with you, that's all.” She wasn't sure if they were talking work or romance, but either way he had a bloody cheek. Now he was shaking his head at her.

 

“Not at all. I actually think that, even objectively, John Watson is clearly a better man than your Anderson.” He said Anderson's name with a kind of half sneer that made Donovan want to throw sharp things at him.

 

“Oh yeah?” Donovan responded, and nearly kicked herself for sounding like some dickhead thirteen year old.

 

The Freak cleared his throat like he was about to launch into song, then drew his skinny body up straight and lifted both hands in order to begin ticking things off on his fingers.

 

Left thumb. “John has more educational attainments than Anderson, which, along with his clearly superior problem solving abilities and awareness, also indicate a higher intelligence.”

 

Left index finger. “John has worked professionally and successfully in a doctor's surgery, a hospital and as a military soldier and medic, thus giving him a broader range of professional and life experiences, desirable traits in a social partner as well as in a person of scientific backgrounds. Anderson, on the other hand, has been in the same job since he completed his training and has not been promoted or offered any other opportunities for the last twelve years.”

 

Donovan scowled at him; that was a sore spot for Anderson. The Freak went on, unperturbed.

 

Left middle finger. “John is physically fit and maintains his physique, despite having suffered severe physical injuries only a couple of years ago. Anderson, on the other hand, is becoming _jiggly_.”

 

Donovan couldn't help but glance over at Anderson then. She hated to admit it, but a bit of jogging or something wouldn't hurt him.

 

Left ring finger. “John is physically strong and very capable in combat situations. A desirable trait in a mate.”

 

“Bit primitive,” Donovan commented.

 

“Yet still valid,” the Freak replied. “What would your Anderson do if a mugger attacked you both?”

 

“I could deal with it!” Donovan snapped, and she bloody well could too. She'd deal with Holmes if he didn't shut his trap soon.

 

“It would be nice if he could pull his weight though, wouldn't it? Besides, I'm sure everyone has a few... _fantasies_ they need a strong partner to fulfil.”

 

She wasn't blushing. She absolutely _wasn't_ blushing and thinking about her favourite diagram in The Joy of Sex. Absolutely not.

 

The Freak smirked. Then; left little finger. “John has strong protective instincts towards his partners and those close to him. Even when he doesn't approve of my methods, he will defend the ends I am trying to achieve, and keep others off my back while I work. When did your Anderson last stick up for you? As I recall, he doesn't even acknowledge our arguments unless I draw him into them.”

 

Donovan folded her arms and fixed her eyes on a severed...something on the floor by the sofa.

 

The Freak didn't stop. Right thumb. “John is both interested in and appreciative of my work, and encourages my development of my professional skills”

 

Donovan waited for him to say more on that one, but he didn't. It still cut though. Not that long ago, Anderson had told her that he didn't think female DIs were attractive, when she'd asked his opinion about her working towards a promotion. She'd felt like slapping him at the time.

 

Right index finger. “John has considerable domestic skills and willingly does the lion's share of our household tasks, without ever experiencing any stupid pangs of emasculation.”

 

Anderson's wife did all their housework. Donovan just rolled her eyes.

 

Right middle finger. “John is a skilful and creative lover, and-”

 

“Oh that's just too fucking much! Do you think he wants you telling me about what you two get up to in bed? Do you think _I_ want to know?”

 

The Freak fixed his eyes on her, hands poised in mid tick in front of him, and gave her a slow, dirty smile.

 

“He's really _very_ good,” he said in a low rumble. “Can you say the same for yours.”

 

“Fuck you! That's none of your business!”

 

“That answers my question quite sufficiently, thank you.” And before she could swear at him any more, he moved on to;

 

Right ring finger. “John is generously proportioned. Not excessively large, but comfortably above average, which really can make a difference when the person knows what they're doing with it.”

 

“I don't want to hear this,” Donovan said.

 

“Well, jealousy is never pleasant,” the Freak replied lightly. “And finally,” right little finger, “John is fiercely loyal and unwaveringly faithful. I don't believe he's even glanced at a woman's cleavage since we began our romantic relationship, even though that used to be one of his favourite pastimes when in pubs. He even got rid of most of his porn.”

 

And that was the one, really the one, that hurt. Because for all Anderson told her she was the most important woman in his life, he always evaded her when she asked about him leaving his wife, or when she tried to convince him to spend the whole night at her flat, or even when she just wanted to go out, just go out on a date. And she knew he'd never marry her, because she wanted to be a DI, and because he'd probably never get promoted again, and because a DI wouldn't have time to come home and do all the housework and ironing and cook dinner for a lazy-ass husband, unlike fucking Nadine who worked full time too, but at least had regular hours, and-

 

“And Anderson, on the other hand, has been seeing that woman in the records department. You know, the one with the badly dyed hair and the World of Warcraft addiction.”

 

“ _What_?” Donovan heard herself say.

 

The Freak looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then said quietly; “You heard me.”

 

Anderson was snapping at Watson again, while Watson calmly got on with smoothing a scalp back onto a sticky skull. Cool as a cucumber, Donovan stepped around the kitchen counter, trod stepping-stone fashion across the dry patches on the living room carpet, tapped Anderson on the shoulder and, when he turned towards her, socked him in the jaw with all her might.

 

*

 

John watched Anderson hit the floor with a thump, rose from his crouch, took one look at Donovan's livid face, and retreated to join Sherlock in the relative safety of the kitchenette.

 

“What was all that about?” he asked.

 

“Even though she hates me, she recognises that I’m right. It’s quite an interesting dilemma,” Sherlock mused, staring avidly at the unfolding chaos.

 

“She-...what-...Sherlock, what did you do?”

 

“Oh, we just had a chat. Let's wait outside for Lestrade, shall we? I've a feeling some of your hard work might get undone, I'm afraid, John. Donovan strikes me as a thrower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh this one was fun to write. What with Sherlock's thoughts on John's many qualities in the last chapter, and his lovely chat with Mycroft in the first, it does feel like I've repeated a couple of motifs here, but you know what? I think they can stand repeating. We only ever scratch the surface of John, but it's clear that there's so much more to him than meets the average eye. It pleases me to let Sherlock make everyone else aware of this fact.
> 
> I actually really like Donovan as a character, and her dilemma is kind of interesting. I always wonder, when watching The Reichenbach Fall, how long she had had her suspicions about Sherlock before she spoke up. Because she isn't stupid, and she isn't a bitch, she's just a hot tempered woman who doesn't appreciate a rude show-off getting in her face at every opportunity, and who isn't afraid to bring up sore points with her boss. And I kind of feel that, in this chapter, in a subtle, not-quite-admitting-it way, Sherlock is showing a little bit of respect for her, as an opponent. 
> 
> And for those of you who enjoy being mean to Anderson...stay tuned ;D


	5. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm brilliant at this, Anderson thought to himself, slipping through the front door of 221 Baker Street.

 

_I'm brilliant at this_ , Anderson thought to himself, slipping through the front door of 221 Baker Street. That housekeeper lady of Holmes' had left it unlocked when she went in with her bags of shopping, and he'd timed his entrance perfectly. He was up the stairs and at the door to flat B without her being any the wiser.

 

Holmes and Watson were out, he knew, because he'd seen them going into Lestrade's office as he finished his own shift only an hour and a half ago. The three of them had been getting ready to leave the building as he clocked out and he was sure they wouldn't be back for hours. Which was good, because he had some serious work to do. He'd popped home only to change into some black clothes, and then headed straight for Baker Street.

 

Last week, Holmes had said something to Donovan, and she had clocked him and then refused to speak to him, or even let him near her. Which was bad enough, but for some reason Yvonne, the girl in records he'd been buttering up, had suddenly lost interest too, which left him with only Nadine to turn to. He couldn't think what Holmes might have made up about him that would have made Donovan react like that, but he was planning to get revenge.

 

It took him some minutes of fumbling with the door before he discovered that it wasn't locked, and he pushed it open as quietly as possible. It was dark inside the flat, and he felt his way along the wall inside the door, first to one side and then to the other, until he found a light switch and turned it on. After allowing a moment for his eyes to adjust, he shut the door behind him and glanced around the living room with trepidation. It was much as he remembered it from the last drugs bust; messy.

 

Holmes was pathetic really, living in a tip like this. Why Watson lowered himself to picking up after him, Anderson couldn't fathom. He walked into the middle of the room and looked around. Where did one start looking for blackmail material in a relative stranger's house?

 

Well, it wasn't blackmail material per se, so much as some means to humiliate Holmes. Anderson's first plan had been to use the photo of Holmes dressed as a woman that Donovan had texted to him a while ago, but he soon realised that half the department had already seen it, and those who hadn't had at least heard about it, so it didn't seem like there was much point. Nobody had seemed that aware of the fact that Watson had been pretending to be she-Holmes' husband, and he had considered using that against them, get at Homes via Watson. But no; Watson would bear the brunt of that embarrassment, and he was, while a bit of a prick, pretty harmless. Anderson would have felt bad.

 

He glanced over the items strewn across the surface of the table and scowled; there were at least two copies of his own reports in that pile, with comments written in the margins with red biro. The bloody cheek! There was a little pile of photos too, including one of Watson with one arm around a nice looking woman with light brown hair, and the other around Holmes who was wearing that stupid purple shirt he was so fond of. They looked to be in a pub. Weird to realise that they did normal things sometimes. The woman wasn't bad looking; one of Watson's bits of fluff, perhaps.

 

He put the photos down and went into the kitchen. Again, it was a tip, with some sort of chemistry experiment set up on the table and a meals worth of dirty crockery stacked in the sink. He remembered Donovan going on and on about those eyeballs and wondered if he could turn up anything like that this time. A quick search of the fridge and cupboards sadly revealed no body parts, unless one counted a packet of bacon. On one shelf, however, behind a row of mugs, he discovered what was undoubtedly some manner of sex toy. It was day-glow blue and phallic, with the power cord coming from it's base neatly rolled up and fastened with a bag tie. Anderson wasn't about to touch the thing, but he did snap a quick picture with his phone. Most likely Holmes had the thing in the house for some experiment, hence why it was in the kitchen, but it's presence could so easily be interpreted as meaning one or both of them was gay. Should raise a bit of a laugh at the Yard.

 

He followed the little corridor that led from the kitchen towards the back of the house, and came to the door of the bathroom. It was quite a small room, most of it being taken up with a large bathtub and a stackable plastic container on the floor which was full of – Anderson lifted the lid tentatively – hair products.

 

A _lot_ of hair products. And there was a great big hair dryer, too. What in blazes did Holmes use them for? It wasn't like he had long hair, or pinned it up or anything. They were undoubtedly Holmes' though, Watson's hair was just normal. Anderson snapped a picture of the contents of the box. They didn't amount to much on their own, but if he was going to make some sort of 'Holmes is gay' case, they wouldn't hurt.

 

He opened the cabinet underneath the sink and peered in to find the bloody mother-lode. There had to be at least six boxes of condoms in there, all different sorts, and two big plastic tubs with labels that looked like they belonged in a doctor's office. He picked one up, and put it right the fuck down again. Lubricant. Medical grade lubricant.

 

So; either Doctor Watson had some embarrassing habits and sticky fingers, or Holmes needed some sort of medical treatment that required lube. More likely to be the former, given his discovery in the kitchen. He snapped another photograph, not before noticing that the boxes of condoms, except for one, were all still neatly closed, with those little stickers to seal the tops in place intact. There was a faint sheen of dust over the upper surfaces of the boxes too.

 

Neither of the boys had got lucky lately, then. He stifled a grin. That was probably what made Holmes such an asshole, and why he was always trying to keep Watson away from women.

 

There was a second door in the bathroom, and he went through it to find himself in one of the bedrooms. He couldn't be sure if it was Holmes' or Watson's, as the room had been full of cardboard boxes the last time he'd been in the flat. There was a bloody big bed in there though, and some nice bits of furniture. A poster on the wall showed the periodic table, which could have belonged to either of them, he supposed. The shirt that lay folded up on top of the chest of drawers looked more Watson's style than Holmes', but it was hard to say with plain white. He pulled a drawer open and saw it was full of socks – those on one side were all neatly paired up and tucked together in an orderly manner, the other side were just stuffed in. Weird.

 

The bedspread was a sort of olive green, which he tended to associate with Watson. Army and all. But the bedside cabinet...he walked over for a closer look at the jumble of objects there. All manner of random rubbish, including a horseshoe, half a brick, and a small potted plant of some kind. And another of those sex toy things! This one was smaller and hot pink, but still undoubtedly meant to go _in_ somewhere. Oh, and look, another of those plastic tubs of lubricant. Well! The fact that they were there together spoke volumes. Clearly Holmes had some sort of weird sexual proclivities and Watson was enabling him by nicking this stuff from his work. Maybe he was being blackmailed to do so, even.

 

This was brilliant. Praising himself for his detective skills, Anderson was getting his phone set up to take a picture of the top of the cabinet when he heard a sound he hadn't expected to hear for a good long time.

 

Holmes' laugh.

 

It was a distinctive sound, booming and deep, accompanied unmistakeably by the higher, rippling sound of Watson, laughing right along with him.

 

Smug bastards! They shouldn't be home yet! They'd only been out with Lestrade for two and a half hours!

 

It sounded like they were still downstairs in the hallway. Maybe he could hide somewhere and sneak out once they were in the flat. He could wait until they went to bed, or even just into the kitchen, and dash out. He hurried back out of the bedroom, through the kitchen and into the living room, already hearing footsteps coming up the stairs. The big, leather sofa sat away from the wall a little bit and, as the back rest angled backwards, there was a fair gap between the bottom of the sofa and the wall.

 

He snapped the lights off and dived into the gap behind the sofa, clutching his phone to his chest, and got his feet tucked in just as the door to the flat opened.

 

“I can't believe you worked out that thing with the engine oil so quickly,” Watson was saying as he came in. There was a soft, fabricy _thump_ on the sofa, which Anderson took to be one of them throwing their coat onto the seat.

 

“Well, the police aren't really trained to use their senses of smell. They just didn't think to check.”

 

“Still...pretty amazing,” Watson replied, and his voice was warm and gentle. Bloody hell, Anderson thought. Anybody would think he was in love with the weirdo. He might not have to work to hard to make his gay rumour stick.

 

There were some footsteps across the floor, he couldn't tell whose, and then a soft, rustling noise that went on for a a minute or so. One of the men, Holmes he thought, made a humming noise as the rustling ceased.

 

“How are you feeling? Tired?” asked Watson, and there was another little humming sound then some more rustling and a little damp sort of sound, before Holmes replied “Not in the least.”

 

“Good,” Watson said, and then there was some frantic movement and the sounds of something soft, several soft things, dropping onto the floor.

 

What the hell were they up to?

 

More footsteps and a heavy thump as somebody dropped down into one of the armchairs.

 

“There?” Watson asked.

 

“Here.”

 

“We'll make a mess of your fancy chair.”

 

“I don't care. Come here.”

 

Oh god, was this going to be some disgusting medical thing? Was he going to have to listen to Holmes getting a bullet pulled out of him or something?

 

“Where are you going?!” Holmes demanded, as footsteps sounded in the kitchen.

 

“The bathroom. We're going to need some- Oh. Where did you get that from?”

 

“I've taken to keeping it in my coat at all times.”

 

“And you're only telling me now...why?”

 

Watson's voice was jolly and teasing, but Holmes' voice, when he replied, was so weak and lost it nearly made Anderson flinch.

 

“Please John, hurry.”

 

God, what if something was really wrong with him? Anderson suddenly felt all weird, like he was a bit of a sicko. What if he'd been inadvertently looking through the belongings of an ill man? Or even a dying one! What if he'd caught something?

 

“Alright, alright,” Watson was saying as he quickly crossed the room, back to Holmes' armchair. “Get up a bit though, or I'll never manage to...that's it, kneel on the seat and put your arms on...that's it.” He sounded breathless and hurried.

 

“ _Hurry_ John!” Holmes cried. “Oh god, that's enough, that's plenty! Hurry up!”

 

“Stop twisting about, I've got to get you-”

 

“You've got to get your _cock_ in me John! _Hurry_!”

 

Well, you could have knocked Anderson down with a feather.

 

His first reaction was one of delight. He'd done such a good job of snooping that he'd come up with the idea of Holmes and Watson being gay for each other without even realising he'd discovered the truth. _Well done Anderson!_ he told himself.

 

That first reaction lasted all of a second, however, and close on its heels were the horrifying realisations that a) Holmes and Watson were about to have sex in an armchair only a few feet away from him, and b) he couldn't get out from behind the sofa without them seeing, and c) he didn't have anything on him suitable for jamming into his ears or killing himself with. He was stuck. Listening. To Holmes and Watson. Shag.

 

And they weren't quiet about it.

 

“Oh _god_! John, that's... _fuck_!”

 

“Calm down, love, try and stay still while I-”

 

“Ah! _AH_! Deeper, hurry!”

 

“I'm going as fast as...oh shit, you feel so-”

 

A creaky rhythm began in the chair, composed of floorboards and leather and the steadily growing slaps of skin, accompanied by Holmes' loud cries and Watson's hoarse encouragement.

 

Anderson crammed his little fingers into his ears until it felt like they'd get stuck and, as best he could in the small space behind the sofa, tried to curl into foetal position. The racket out in the living room was diminished to vague, rough noises and the occasional deep, incomprehensible boom of Holmes' voice. He tried to think of happy places, safe places, where there were lots of scantily clad women and no men fucking each other on poncey furniture.

 

He wasn't sure how long he lay like that for, fingers in ears and eyes tightly closed, but when he began listening properly again, it was to find that he could no longer hear much in the way of shouting. Had they finished? It must have been a good few minutes, so it was quite possible that they had, given how quickly they'd begun. He could hear some sort of rhythmic noise still, but couldn't say for certain if it was them or the sound of his own pulse in his blocked ears. All of a sudden, with a flash of horror, he wondered if they might have worked out he was there, if he would open his eyes to find them peering down at him, nude and furious.

 

All at once, he opened his eyes and pulled his fingers from his ears, to discover to his relief that there was nobody looking at him. Indeed, there was nothing to suggest that his presence in the room had even been noticed.

 

Unfortunately, the fucking continued. He could still hear the creaking and slapping and the heavy breathing, although the latter seemed to have taken the place of any sort of verbal noise. In fact, it seemed to be building, getting louder and hoarser and louder still, and Anderson was just about to stick his fingers back in his ears, when-

 

“ _Oh god oh fuck John yes! YES!_ ” There was then a quiet but distinct splattering noise.

 

Anderson felt bile rise in his throat.

 

There was a ragged noise from Watson, then a long, low groan and a few muttered profanities, and then it seemed they were done. Finally! _Go upstairs_ , he willed them. _Go upstairs and go to sleep so I can get out from behind this bloody sofa and go home to my wife_.

 

No such bloody luck. He had to stay still and endure a good ten minutes more of smoochy noises and barely audible pillow talk, before Watson finally became Anderson's personal hero by announcing his intention to have a wash.

 

“I don't want a shower. I'd have to stand up for too long,” Holmes said in a pouty voice.

 

“I'll run a bath then. We can get in together.” Silence from Holmes, so Watson continued; “Come on, Sherlock, you need to get clean before you get into bed. You're dripping, you know. I'll wash your hair for you, remember how much you liked that last time?”

 

“Alright, you get it running then. I want a glass of water.”

 

Anderson heard Watson get to his feet and a sort of ' _hnnnn_ ' noise that he thought meant he'd stretched. Then there were feet padding through the kitchen, the sound of a door being opened and, eventually, the sound of running water.

 

It would be okay, Anderson told himself. They wouldn't be able to hear much from the bathroom, so as soon as Holmes had drunk his water and went after Watson, he could get out from behind the sofa, nip out of the door, and be gone. A few minutes at most and he'd be home free, and nobody would ever find out that he'd been-

 

“Anderson?” Holmes said.

 

Anderson was fairly sure his heart stopped for a few seconds.

 

“I know you're there, but please don't feel the need to emerge. I suppose I should be quite cross with you, but I think I'm a bit too shagged out, actually.”

 

_I hate you_ , Anderson thought. _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you_...

 

“Had I noticed your presence before we began, I would of course have thrown you out. I might even have let John rough you up a bit first. But as it is, I'm sure you think you've suffered enough. You haven't, of course, but I'm sure you _think_ you have.”

 

_Bastard, bastard, bastard_...

 

“Fortunately for you, John didn't realise you were there and I see no reason to tell him. Now, if you don't mind, I have rather a lot of come running down my leg and Mrs Hudson gets _so_ annoyed if I let it get all over the rug. I'm going to join John in the bath, please show yourself out. Oh, and good luck not thinking about this while having sex with any of your various women.”

 

And with that, Holmes set off quite slowly and with very small steps across the room and through the kitchen. A few moments later, Anderson heard distant voices and then the click of the bathroom door closing. He peeped out from behind the sofa and found the living room empty of people, the lights still on. There were two sets of clothes strewn all over the floor, and a rather messy armchair that he deliberately didn't look at. He clambered out from behind the sofa, opened the door of the flat, crept down the stairs, opened the front door, and stepped out into the street.

 

“Fucking hell,” he said out loud.

 

That didn't seem like quite enough.

 

“Fuck, shit, damn, cunt!” he tried.

 

Then he turned around to find a woman with a cocker spaniel on a lead glaring at him. He gave her an apologetic smile and wave. The dog barked at him.

 

With a sigh, he watched her set off down the street, then took his phone out of his pocket and began deleting the photos. Because he knew, now, that even if he could use any of them, he'd never hear the bloody end of it from Holmes.

 

“Fuck,” he said once more, as he turned to head for the tube station. Sadly, it didn't make him feel any better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy this far too much :D
> 
> Nearly the end of this, one more to go. John's turn next, and I hope he'll do Sherlock proud.
> 
> BTW, anybody going to the Sherlock picnic in Regent's Park next week? If so, I'll hopefully see you there :)


	6. Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But John was walking over to him. Marching calmly towards them, and he would sort it all out. He would make things alright. He had to!

 

 

Sherlock had finally found a quiet spot in the building's small courtyard, a little peace in which to collect his thoughts, when an extremely unwelcome voice reached his ears.

 

“Ah, Mr Holmes! There you are!”

 

Sherlock hunched his shoulders up inside his coat and pretended not to have heard. His client didn't take the hint however and, a moment later, was standing at his side, beaming broadly at him with his unnaturally perfect, wholly bizarre teeth.

 

Julian Bartlett was the stereotypical City Type; smarmy, over-confident, over-educated and dumb as a brick in any field but the one he worked in. Were it not for his blond hair and tubby physique, it would have been uncomfortably like working for Sebastian again. As it was, Sherlock had accepted his request to find a piece of artwork that had been stolen from his home during a drinks party, and had completed the task successfully. In fact, the police were in the building in front of them right at that moment, arresting the thief and retrieving the stolen portrait from the hidden cache that Sherlock had deduced the location of.

 

Sherlock had hoped that this would mean the end of his and Bartlett's acquaintance. Unfortunately, it seemed that the hero-worshipping Bartlett had other ideas. After a minute or so of being ignored by Sherlock, he moved from his side to stand directly in front of him and, despite Sherlock determinedly staring at the bench to his left, Bartlett refused to believe he hadn't been seen.

 

“Mr Holmes, jolly good work! I must say, even with your reputation, I never expected you to catch him so quickly.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Not particularly difficult,” he said casually. He didn't make eye contact with Bartlett. The man was as loquacious as the dawn chorus and rarely said anything actually worth listening to. They'd be stuck here all day if he decided he wanted to hang around and _chat_.

 

“So it was one of the waiters I hired then?” Bartlett continued. “Cheeky bastard. After I was good enough to give him a night's work, he goes and repays me by stealing my John Hopkins miniature-”

 

“John Hoskins,” Sherlock corrected, then immediately regretted speaking.

 

“Hoskins! Yes, exactly! Goodness you're quick Mr Holmes, though you realise that I was just testing you, I'm sure. Anyway, jolly well done finding the bugger so quickly. I suppose he was one of these work dodging benefits scroungers, living off the state, eh? I don't understand why some people don't just get a job.”

 

Sherlock glanced up at the luxurious apartment building in whose grounds they stood, the very building that housed the opulent home of an art thief who had been wanted by Interpol for some twelve years, and desperately fought down the urge to tell Bartlett exactly what he thought of him and his worthless logic. Thankfully, he was distracted by the appearance of Lestrade in the main entrance to the building, closely followed by two uniformed officers leading the criminal in question by the arms. The forensics team were still inside, probably cocking up the search for the cache, but a small group of officers remained by the doors, discussing the case between themselves as they watched the thief being packed into the back of a police car. Sherlock caught a glimpse of John's fair head amongst them and felt slightly soothed for knowing he was only fifty yards away.

 

“So that's the chap, is it?” Bartlett mused loudly. “Look at him! You can tell at a glance he's a criminal!”

 

Sherlock winced with the effort of not pointing out that Bartlett had had the man in his home for several hours and hadn't noted any criminal appearance to speak of.

 

“Look at that trilobite forehead!”

 

Troglodyte, Sherlock thought, clenching his jaw.

 

“I bet his skull is a perfect example of criminal phrenology.”

 

Which has been discounted as a science by anybody with the least scrap of sense, Sherlock thought, shoving his hands into his coat pockets in order to prevent himself from doing any throttling.

 

“And I'll bet you anything,” Bartlett added with a disdainful sniff, “that he's a gay.”

 

“ _What_?” Sherlock said sharply.

 

“Oh yes,” Bartlett continued with an air of authority. “It's a well known fact that the gays are responsible for a large proportion of crime.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, but there were just too many options for a response, and he couldn't pick one out before Bartlett started talking again.

 

“I mean, look at the numbers. One in ten men is a gay, supposedly. And one in ten people commit a criminal offence at some point in their lives. Well, it just adds up, doesn't it!”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Bartlett what an absolute fucking idiot he was, but his throat was blocked by... what was it? What was this feeling? Ah, that's right: anger. Rage.

 

“And it's not just crime, you know. The divorce rate went up around the time that more men started living openly as gays, and there's more teenage pregnancy now because girls all want to catch a man before he turns. And of course, the house prices have gone up because all the gays are moving in with their boyfriends, and now they want to marry! Like normal people! Can you credit it, Mr Holmes?”

 

Every muscle in Sherlock's body was a tense as a bowstring and rage was flushing his skin and making his back prickle. And yet not a sound came out him. He couldn't understand it. He should have been tearing Bartlett apart, but the words wouldn't come! There was just too much anger and disgust and bitter, bitter disappointment all fighting its way though him, and none of it could get out.

 

“I mean, I read it in all the papers, I've done my research, you know. Oh yes, I'm well informed. You can rest assured they won't be getting _me_ , Mr Holmes. I'm sure you agree with me, you're a sensible man. A real man of the world, I'm sure. I tell you what; I reckon they ought to all get the same treatment they gave that Turing chap. Chemical castration, that's the ticket! Didn't he top himself after that? Even better! Maybe the rest of them would follow his example, eh?”

 

A chill went though Sherlock. He didn't want to exist in the same world as this man, and yet he couldn't do anything about it, and the revulsion was almost overwhelming. He couldn't bear it. He was going to break down, or attack him, or something but...

 

But John was walking over to him. Marching calmly towards them, and he would sort it all out. He would make things alright. He had to!

 

“Hello Mr Bartlett,” John said neutrally. “Pleased with the way it's turned out?”

 

“Oh absolutely Doctor Watson! Yes, I am. I was just saying to Mr Holmes here what a good job he's done.”

 

John studied Sherlock's face for an instant, just an instant, and Sherlock felt like John had read every word of the last ten minutes from his expression. But John's face was composed and calm as he turned back to Bartlett. “Yes, he's rather a wonder, isn't he.”

 

“God yes! Such a marvellous mind. Terribly impressive chap! We were just talking about a few ways of dealing with crime, actually. And Mr Holmes agrees with me, I'm sure. Such a good example. A real man's man! Wouldn't you agree, Doctor Watson?”

 

“Oh yes, totally,” John said. Then he turned to Sherlock, grinned broadly, and said “C'mere, you.”

 

Without further ado, he grabbed Sherlock by the lapels, yanked him forwards and kissed him.

 

John didn't like to kiss in public. Not usually. But this wasn't some little peck on the lips because he was happy to see Sherlock was safe after a close call, or anything like that. This was the sort of kiss that Sherlock lived day to day hoping for, the kind that had only ever existed in their bedroom, and then only when John was in a rare state; deep and passionate and possessive, almost overwhelming. His body was hauled up against John's with all the strength in that deceptively compact frame. His mouth was licked open and ravaged, his lips were sucked and tugged and grazed by teeth, and all the bitter anger drifted away from him like a cloud of steam.

 

When John finally let go of him his chin was wet, his coat and scarf were both twisted around to his left, his knuckles were sore from where his hands had been clenched in the back of John's jacket, and he was absolutely dizzy with lust.

 

John smoothed down the front of his jacket, ran his eyes over Sherlock, and gave a sharp nod of satisfaction. Then he turned to Bartlett.

 

“Mr Bartlett, I'd advise you not pester my boyfriend, particularly not when I'm in earshot. It makes me rather cross.”

 

Bartlett opened and closed his mouth like a fish, making little involuntary sounds. John just slipped his hand into Sherlock's and towed him away towards the arch that led from the courtyard onto the street.

 

“The police are more or less finished with us,” he said firmly, and it didn't even occur to Sherlock to argue to be allowed to stay.

 

“John, you _kissed_ me!” he blurted. “Like that! Outdoors!”

 

John shrugged awkwardly. “I heard some of what he was saying to you. I know you have a thick skin Sherlock, but that was just too bloody much. I can't believe some of the crap he came up with. And when he started on Turing, I saw red. I mean, I don't know for sure, but it always struck me that you'd be an admirer of Turing, you know?”

 

Sherlock nodded speechlessly. John couldn't know about all the books on Turing and his work he had devoured as a teenager, or about the pictures of him he had on the wall of his room in halls at uni. But he knew Sherlock, knew him inside out.

 

The rage was all gone now, burned away by adoration. Unfortunately, said adoration seemed to have left him equally unable to talk.

 

About halfway to the taxi rank, John stopped, turned Sherlock to face him, took a hankie out of his trouser pocket, and wiped Sherlock's chin with it.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

A mean little smile crept onto John's face. “What dirt did you get on him?” he asked.

 

“On Bartlett?”

 

“Don't be coy, Sherlock. I saw the way your eyes lit up when we first went to his flat. Tell me.”

 

Sherlock was delighted. John had noticed! He'd almost forgotten about it himself when the case had taken a turn for the interesting. “Well, he's definitely spending more money than his company know he's earning, there was a small sculpture in his living room that's listed as having been stolen eight years ago from a museum in Lisbon, and he regularly uses an escort service that's currently under investigation for being involved in people trafficking.”

 

“Pfft. And he had the audacity to blame crime rates on the likes of us! We'll go and talk to Lestrade tomorrow, eh?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And for now...home?”

 

Sherlock took John's hand and smiled at him, at his care lined face and his lovely soft hair and all the ridiculous wonderfulness of him.

 

“Yes, let's go home,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of this story, and I hope you've all enjoyed it. Thank you for reading and extra thanks to everyone who left me nice comments, which I always find very encouraging. This was great fun to write, and I looked forward to every Wednesday with glee.
> 
> My plans for further writing are as follows: update my original story, The Blue Prince; write the Sherlock story that I had people voting on against The Wrong Wagon at the end of Peach, which has now been entitled 'Small Screen Valentino'; write the sequel to TaotCW, The Adventure of the Russian Gentleman (which still doesn't have an ending, quite, but I'm sure I'll come up with one as I go along); and then see what happens!  
> Wish me luck :D
> 
> Also, back when I worked at a public library, we have one regular patron who I came to consider my nemesis. He was a sweet looking man of around seventy, nicely dressed and well spoken, who was the most appalling bigot I have ever encountered. If it existed in Britain, I'm sure he would have wanted to join the KKK, he was truly that bad, and he used the fact that he was a committed Christian (on paper) to justify all of his hate and spite. The 'theory' on how gay men should be castrated in the hope that they kill themselves like Turing did was his, as was the dodgy use of 'one-in-ten' statistics. And I had to sit at the reference desk listening to this hateful shit, wishing desperately that he would say something personally offensive to me, so I could justify kicking him out of the library. Finally, after I had refused to send a sexist and insulting email to the female MD of a local company on his behalf, he called me a whore and I had the great big (gay) security guard escort him out. The next time he stopped by the library, he refused to be helped by me as I apparently looked 'too Jewish', and he was again kicked out after beginning a loud rant on this theme.  
> The fact that this man existed, that he had lived so long and yet found so little to enjoy in the world except opportunities to make himself feel big at the expense of others, made me feel truly sickened, and it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth to this day. So writing this has been a little like therapy for me. Thanks for joining me.
> 
> Also again, Alan Turing was a true British hero; a genius mathematician, logician and cryptanalyst, who broke codes at Bletchley Park during World War II, worked out dynamics of chemical interactions decades before other scientists could recreate the experiments he used to prove him right, and became the father of computer science. He was found to be homosexual, which was illegal in Britain at the time, and was offered a choice of prison or chemical castration. He chose the latter, but found that his altered hormones affected his ability to think and to work, and committed suicide by eating an apple that he had tainted with cyanide. His unjust treatment is a great shame of the British legal system, and in 2009 an official apology was made, and a full posthumous pardon given. Too little, far too late.
> 
> This has gotten a bit heavy hasn't it.  
> Cocks!


End file.
